Arguments and Obstinance
by Besina
Summary: Moriarty puts Sherlock and John in a classic conundrum. Humor, parody and crack!fic. A bit slashy too. Meta fic.


Arguments and Obstinance  
>Written by Besina, March 2012<p>

Rated: T  
>Characters: Sherlock, John, Moriarty<br>Pairings: Sherlock/John, sort of  
>Story Type: Humor, parody, crack!fic<br>Warnings: slashy

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters and mean no copyright infringement by bringing them out to play, nor do I make any money by writing this fanfic.

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><p>The room of the old warehouse they were in was dimly lit, and slightly grimy. John and Sherlock sat facing each other, about ten feet apart, both kneeling, sitting back on their heels, arms bound at the biceps, elbows and wrists, tethered to the bindings around their ankles. It was an extremely uncomfortable position. Sherlock's fingers were trying to get a purchase on the ropes binding him, but they'd already gone numb, the ropes higher up effectively cutting off most of the blood supply to his hands.<p>

Moriarty's chuckle echoed through the room. He had speakers, and no doubt cameras, set up around here somewhere, though where in the rather stark room, was impossible to tell.

His voice echoed against the walls, undulating eerily as usual: "Hello boys! What a _pleasant surprise_! As it's my birthday; did you know it's my birthday? Well, not _really_, of course, that would be so mundane. But I felt like celebrating today, so today it is. As I was saying, as it's my birthday, and I'm feeling in _such_ a generous mood, I thought I'd give you a choice. _Either_ is fine with me as they'd both be _excellent_ presents; your choice: you can entertain me, and maybe live to see another day, _or_ I could _kill_ you, slowly, painfully and make you beg for death. _Really_ either one would be such _fun_! Your choice boys, what will it be?"

John cleared his throat and tried to look where he imagined a camera might be. "What exactly would the entertainment consist of?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could.

"_Wonderful_ of you to ask!" chirped Moriarty. It would consist, my lads, of you two, in your current positions, working to fuck each other, on my command. No arms to use, no legs to speak of, just teeth and tongues and mouths working to rip off each other's clothing, rutting against each other, sucking and fucking in those _awfully inconvenient_ positions until I tell you to stop. Oh, _no no no no no!_ Don't protest! I know _neither _of you have an interest in that sort of thing, but that's what will make it so deliciously wonderful to watch. _Degrading_ yourselves in front of me! But of course, that's what you'll _have to do_, if you'd rather not choose the other option, and positions reversed, I wouldn't recommend the other, no matter _how much_ I'd enjoy it!

"Seriously," pitched in Sherlock, "you're giving us a 'fuck-or-die' situation? How utterly pedestrian." He glanced up at the computer screen, locking eyes with the typist. "Really? You should know better!" He sounded disappointed and faintly disgusted. "We're not, even one of us, inclined that way in this universe! Not secretly, nor repressed nor even unrequited. _This _is the best you can do?"

The typist looked momentarily confused, but of course, this was Sherlock, he could figure nearly anything out.

Moriarty stood looking upwards, toward the point Sherlock was addressing. "Sherlock, _darling_, have you _lost_ your mind, dear? It's far, _far_ too early in the game for any of that, now. Stop it or I _shan't have any fun_ later."

John gave Sherlock a curious look of his own, figuring confusing Moriarty was part of his game plan somehow. Having relaxed his own struggles early on and adjusted to a frankly embarrassing backward arch, his fingers retained much of their circulation and had managed to unravel quite a bit of the rope. The last few bits gave way under the tension of his thumbs and sawing of his fingernails. He struggled as nonchalantly as he could, slipping the coils from around his wrists and ankles, before springing to his feet to aid Sherlock in ridding himself of his.

"John." Sherlock said.

John ignored him, sank back-to-back with him and continued trying to unfasten Sherlock's ropes as quickly as his reversed squatting position would allow.

"John." He continued, finally resorting to an angry tone one would use with a bad dog, "JOHN!"

John shook his head, bewildered, and asked "What?" just as he had managed to free Sherlock's own wrists and heels.

"No point in it, John. The door's bound to be locked from the outside with no means for escape from within."

"Marvelously deduced, Sherlock, but then of course, you _knew_ I'd be thorough," came Moriarty's amused chirruping.

"Had nothing to do with Moriarty, John," Sherlock hissed under his breath. "It's the author. She's, at least it's statistically likely to be a she, _meddling_, again." Peevishly, he continued, "Could it be a good chase scene? An interesting case maybe? Even cute cutaway scenes of our everyday lives? Nooo, of course not, John; she's had to go get her panties all in a knot and write some unabashed PWP."

"PWP?" asked John, then "Author?"

"Nevermind, John. It'll take far too long to explain to that average mind of yours. Just trust me, we're in a classic conundrum for slash writers, more's the pity."

"Slash? And what's writing got to do with it?"

"Everything," snarled Sherlock.

"Now now boys," cut in Moriarty, "You may have gotten some of your binds undone, and saddened me quite a bit, but unless you're discussing which opportunity I've given you to seize upon, let's have no more of the chit-chat, or escape attempts." A fine mist began blowing in through the vents. It stopped after a few moments but not before both Sherlock and John had begun choking on its effects. "That's what you'll get if Daddy's mad, so _chop-chop_, hurry up and make up your minds… I don't have _forever_ you know."

The typist's mouth twisted into a dissatisfied pout. Characters weren't supposed to get snarky with you. They did what you told them to, and they liked it, they didn't _argue _for gods' sakes. Suddenly, inspiration hit. She typed:

Sherlock's mind suddenly felt foggy, perhaps the aftermath of the drug Moriarty'd unleashed upon them. At least he could breathe now. He swiveled on his knees to get a good look at John, hopefully not any the worse for wear, even after that dose. John was still coughing, but the worst of it seemed to be over. They were inches from each other, John turned and laid his head down on Sherlock's shoulder to recover from the worst of it, drawing in lungfuls of not-so-fresh air.

Sherlock shook his head. He couldn't seem to clear his mind – what had he just been thinking? It seemed to slip right out of his grasp. Bugger. He hated being drugged, at least when he hadn't been the one to do it.

The fogginess of thought seemed to be affecting John to, as he raised his head to look at Sherlock, eyes glassy. "Sherlock?" he inquired confusedly, not quite understanding what was happening to him.

Sherlock felt a heat beginning to rise between them. This was John. He was confused, he was looking to Sherlock to help him, comfort him. There wasn't a lot Sherlock could do in this situation, Moriarty had made their conundrum pretty clear cut. And, someone… someone else had made him irritable. But this Moriarty affair was much more dire than the need to figure out who'd upset his equilibrium. John continued to stare at him, unsure, waiting for guidance.

A surge of protectiveness swelled through Sherlock, as well as the knowledge that even if they indulged Moriarty, this could very well be their last few hours together. A few hours were better than none, and even so, it purchased time to think. John looked so vulnerable, so trusting…

Sherlock found he couldn't resist the impulse to lean down and kiss him. He pressed his lips very gently against John's. John, at first tense and questioning, then yielding, giving the lead to Sherlock.

"_Excellent_!" Moriarty purred, "but wait a second, if you don't mind, I'd like to turn on the camera."

Sherlock ignored Moriarty, focusing on snogging his best friend, whose throat was now releasing tiny little whimpers at Sherlock's attentions. He slowly opened their mouths and slicked his tongue across John's, his mind going a mile a minute despite his looking completely absorbed in his task.

Their bodies teetered against each other as they kissed, unable to steady themselves with their hands. Sherlock began kissing his way up John's jawline, pausing just behind his ear.

In the time it had taken her to get up and get a drink, the text she'd been in the midst of writing had morphed into this:

Sherlock's mind cleared, and suddenly his course of action became plain. "Follow my lead, John," he breathed into his companion's ear.

John nodded mutely, unsure if Sherlock was talking about sex or escape, and perplexed that he was not entirely sure which he'd prefer.

"Bite the buttons off, Sherlock, show some initiative! _To hell_ with this sickly sweetness. _Show time!" _Moriarty's sing-song voice cut through the room.

Sherlock's head snapped up, glaring at where he thought Moriarty must have been, lingering a second or two on the place he'd earlier addressed on the ceiling.

"Option two," he announced.

"_Really?_" Moriarty sounded momentarily confused.

John's mouth merely opened in shock before he thought to close it.

"Yes," replied Sherlock icily.

"You're making Daddy mad now, you know, _don't toy with me_, Sherlock."

John stared stalwartly ahead, faith completely in his flat-mate.

"Very well then." There was a click and a hiss as more gas blew in from the vents. They were coughing and wheezing within seconds. The edges of John's vision narrowed as he gasped for breath, just before he fell to the floor, shortly after Sherlock, unconscious.

The writer felt somewhat flummoxed. This was not supposed to be what was happening. What the hell was wrong with some good old Sherlock/John slash? She certainly hadn't wanted to write anything like a snuff film. Where was this story taking itself?

"Should I get the dissection kit ready, boss?" came the voice at Moriarty's shoulder.

"No," he replied airily, swishing his hand dismissively. "Suddenly that thought no longer amuses me. Unlock the door, cut them free and when they wake up, they may leave. I suggest we remove ourselves before then. Let's go see if any more interesting requests have presented themselves for my consideration." And with that Moriarty swanned out the door, leaving his minion to finish his orders.

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><p>Sherlock and John awoke around the same time, finding himself unbound, John quickly took his own pulse and Sherlock's. Apart from some fuzzy-headedness, and a drunken-like state, he found them mostly unharmed. They staggered to the road, hailed a cab and travelled back to 221B, where they inexpertly made their way up the stairs to their flat, John collapsing into his chair, Sherlock determined to pace, unevenly.<p>

"Sherlock," asked John, still confused, "what _was_ that?"

"A demonstration in obstinance," growled Sherlock, still tipsily pacing, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

"What's… what's it mean?" asked John, groggily.

"It means," replied Sherlock, "that I'm the same as I ever was and now, _you're confused_. As I care a great deal about your mental state, that also means: I. AM. ANGRY." he punctuated every syllable with a hint of venom.

He looked at the typist once more, (how did he do that? How did he even know where to look?) storm clouds raging behind his eyes.

Her computer crashed.

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><p>AN: Reviews are love! Please let me know if you enjoyed it or had a favorite line!

Thanks for reading! I can be found on Tumblr as BesinaAo3

Please do not repost or distribute this work on any other site.  
>For translation permissions, please see my AO3 profile - username Besina<p> 


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